Shadow of the Beast: A DS Hunter Kerr Novel

by Michael Fowler

  ‘Okay, brilliant Grace,’ DI Scaife took back the briefing. ‘And well done you two. And using your own words Hunter “not to jump the gun here”, but he’s certainly worth looking at. Get the ordnance map section of the estate blown up and put onto the incident board. Let’s identify where Braithwaite’s house was in relation to the chapel. And check if that box of files is still in the basement at headquarters, and if it is, get it brought across here. This Braithwaite guy needs some in-depth work.’

  * * *

  Hunter pulled up outside retired PC Gordon Jennings home and ran his eyes over the 1960s semi. It was an ex-police house, and unlike many of the other ex-police houses on the road which had undergone extensive renovation since they were sold off, Gordon Jennings’s still retained its original features – flat fronted, with large windows and a wooden glass panelled door. The front garden was immaculate with a bowling green lawn and neat borders.

  Gordon had the front door open before Hunter and Grace were halfway down the path. Despite a stoop, which Hunter guessed was aged related, Gordon filled the doorway. He was a big broad-shouldered man with a thick head of white hair and Hunter couldn’t help but admire how well he looked given that he was 74.

  Hunter had to look up at him as they shook hands. Gordon’s large hand peppered with liver spots enveloped his and the grip was strong. He recalled what David Simmons had said about his reputation and wasn’t surprised one bit given the man’s present stature. He must have looked a man-mountain when he was on the beat.

  He showed them through to the kitchen, indicating for Hunter and Grace to sit at a table while he went to the sink and filled up the kettle. Switching it on, and arranging three cups in a line he glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘Since you phoned I’ve been up in the loft and found all my old pockets books.’ He nodded at two shoe boxes in the centre of the table. ‘I never handed mine in when I retired. I always fancied doing my memoirs one day.’ He let out a small chuckle and returned to preparing the drinks.

  Hunter noted he still had the hint of a Scottish accent. He remembered what the locals referred to him by when he’d patrolled the streets.

  The kettle boiled and Gordon began pouring hot water in the cups. He paused while filling the third cup and looked back, ‘Sorry I never asked what you wanted. I’ve made tea. It’s just automatic.’

  Hunter looked at Grace. Whereas he loved tea he knew she was a coffee fan. She nodded back and mouthed the words ‘fine’. Hunter replied, ‘Tea’s good.’

  The retired Constable stirred the tea cups, adding milk, and set down them down on the table. Then, bringing a plate of biscuits he took a seat with them. Dragging one of the shoe boxes towards him he hooked off the lid. ‘These have not seen the light of day since I finished back in nineteen-ninety-four.’

  Hunter saw that the box was crammed with police issue note-books. There must have been at least thirty of them in two neat rows.

  Gordon said, ‘I saw it on the news last night about the girl’s body you’ve found in the old chapel. Your Detective Super said that you’re looking at the possibility that she might have been killed and buried there during the nineteen-eighties.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hunter replied.

  ‘So I’m guessing that you wanting to talk to me about the people who lived on the estate around that time – see if I could recollect anyone going missing from around there – that you haven’t managed to identify her yet?’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Other than the clothing that was on the body, we’ve got nothing else to go on. We’ve taken DNA but we’re only going to get a match if we can locate her family. The thing that’s going to complicate this, because it’s so long back, is the likelihood that all our Missing from Home reports will have been destroyed. Some of the long term mispers have been entered on our computer system, and we’ve got some records filed at district headquarters but we don’t think they go back that far. We are going to be reliant upon someone telling us who she is.’

  Gordon rubbed his chin, ‘I’ve not had time to look through any of my pocket books yet, but I’ve really racked my brains and I can’t remember any girl disappearing from around the Chapel Estate. Not permanently anyhow. There were a couple of girls who were always going missing, but as far as I can recall they always returned home.’

  Hunter tutted, ‘Never mind Gordon. To be honest it was a long shot.’

  ‘It did get me thinking though and I remember that in the eighties we used to get a lot of women visitors to that area. Many of them from West Yorks.’ He looked from Grace to Hunter, tapping his nose. “Ladies of the night” – you know what I mean.’

  ‘You mean street workers?’ said Grace.

  He nodded and with a note of disdain he replied, ‘Aye, that’s what they call them now. Label them how you want, but it’s just a fancy name for prostitutes. The place was bad enough as it was without them coming and making it worse. I’d see them off the minute I clapped my eyes on them. Send them packing I would.’

  ‘Street workers on the Chapel estate? Why would they come to a place like that, if it was as bad as what they say it was?’ responded Hunter.

  Gordon gave him a nonplus stare. ‘Safety of course.’

  ‘Safety?’

  ‘Yes Laddie, safety. Just think about what was going on back then.’

  It was Hunter’s turn to issue a confounded stare.

  ‘The Yorkshire Ripper.’ He gave off a sigh and said, ‘The girls didn’t feel safe on the streets of West Yorkshire so they came here.’

  Hunter gave a look of understanding. ‘Sorry Gordon I wasn’t on your wave length. I was only a teenager when Peter Sutcliffe was on his killing spree. It was just news headlines for me I’m afraid.’

  ‘Aye well. The knock on effect for us was immense. Because we were in easy travelling distance of Leeds and Bradford we were inundated with prostitutes. Not just this neck of the woods, but Doncaster and Sheffield got their fair share as well.’

  ‘So what I think you’re hinting at Gordon is that there’s a possibility that the body we’ve found buried in the chapel could be a street worker?’

  Gordon opened out his hands and canted his head. ‘It would make sense. As I’ve said I can’t remember any local lasses disappearing. But if it was one of the street girls, her family, or whatever, might well have reported her missing in West Yorks and the police there more than likely looked in the wrong place for them.’

  Hunter glanced across to Grace, ‘That would certainly make sense.’

  She acknowledged his comment with a nod.

  ‘I soon got to know a couple of the regulars who came here, but likewise they got to know me and as soon as they saw me coming they made a beeline for The Navvi…’

  ‘The Navvi?’ interrupted Hunter.

  ‘The Navigation Inn. It was the local. Only pub on the estate, come to that. A real dive, as you can probably imagine. They’d go in there because they knew I wouldn’t go in. As big as I was, it was a place I wouldn’t go in alone.’ His eyes drifted a second and he paused as if reminiscing. Then bringing back his gaze he continued, ‘They used the place as a base, especially in winter, and then ply their trade on the back lane that ran beside Chapel Meadow. It was a narrow road back then which was used as a short-cut to the pit and also between us and Mexborough and Bolton-on-Dearne, so it would get a fair bit of traffic passing through, which was good for the girls’ business.’

  Inside his head Hunter quickly re-ran what the retired officer had just told them and thinking allowed said, ‘So if our victim was a street worker from the West Yorkshire area then no one from her family or friends might be any the wiser that she’d ended her time right here in Barnwell?’

  Gordon gave a sharp nod. Hunter could see Grace out of the corner of his eye stroking her lower lip. She appeared deep in thought and he guessed she was also mulling over what the big man had just said, but there was something puzzling him. Before he had time to check back with the retired officer, Gordon picked up the co
nversation again.

  ‘And I think that leads us on nicely to the other question you asked me on the phone this morning. You said you wanted to pick my brains about Terrence Arthur Braithwaite?’

  ‘Oh Yes.’ Hunter flipped open his folder and tested his pen on the corner of a blank sheet. He’d been so engrossed he had forgotten to write anything down. He would have to store to memory what Gordon had just said. He scribbled the words ‘Ripper’ and ‘Street workers’ as prompts for later and then said, ‘His name cropped up in an enquiry yesterday afternoon. We spoke with the local heritage secretary who told us about Braithwaite killing a seventeen-year-old girl and committing a series of rapes around the estate back in the early seventies and that he used to live on Chapel Lane. In fact, it was him who gave us your name as being the community bobby for that area during Braithwaite’s spree.’

  Gordon took a quick sip of his tea and said, ‘Now that was one weird guy. No cancel that – one evil, weird guy. It was me who gave CID Braithwaite’s name after the second rape on the estate. The first one he did wasn’t dealt with as a rape because the woman involved had a bit of a background and so her complaint was knocked. I have to say, at the time, because I knew the woman, and I knew she was telling the truth, I was furious, but it didn’t get me anywhere – I was just the community bobby – a lazy thick woodentop.’ He set down his cup, eyeing Hunter and Grace thoughtfully before continuing. ‘I’m being a bit facetious but that’s what it felt like. As I said I knew the woman – they didn’t, and the bottom line is if they’d had done their job properly, I’m convinced he wouldn’t have raped again and Glynis Young would still have been alive.’ He seemed to ponder a moment then continued, ‘I got myself in a bit of bother over it. I went to the DCI and made my feelings known about the detectives who’d interviewed her but it only resulted in me getting a good and proper dressing down.’ He held up his hand and made a sign with his finger and thumb. ‘Made me look that small, he did.’ He dropped his hand, shaking his head. ‘The arsehole!’ He took a deep breath. ‘The upshot was that the incompetence of a couple of detectives was swept under the carpet and I was sent back to my beat with a flea in my ear.’ He paused, glanced between Hunter and Grace and, forcing a smile, added, ‘You probably see that I’m not a fan of CID, present company excepted.’

  Hunter returned a meek smile, ‘I can’t talk for officers back then but I’d like to think we do our job properly.’

  ‘As I said present company accepted.’

  ‘There’re a lot of questions I want to ask you Gordon, especially the angle involving the street workers, but we’ll do them in order. First, from what you’ve just said about Braithwaite and the rapes, can you tell us what really happened regarding his victims – not what came out in court – so I can see if he fits into our enquiry anywhere?’ Hunter got ready to write.

  ‘Yeah okay, I’d love to. I’ve had to bottle some of this up for years. It would be good to give my side of things after all this time. What the DCI said to me wasn’t right. If he hadn’t been a gaffer I’d have punched his lights out.’

  Hunter studied the man’s face and smiled to himself. The big man reminded him so much of his retired CID mentor Barry Newstead, now a civilian investigator with MIT. Similarly, Barry had had a habit of saying what he thought and rubbing the bosses up the wrong way, and he could be handy with his fists. These two would have worked well together. Putting the thought to one side he said, ‘Tell us about Braithwaite then?’

  ‘Terry Braithwaite was one of those people I was told to keep my eye on by my tutor bobby, who showed me around my beat. He was pointed out to me back in sixty-nine, when I’d started. Braithwaite had just done a stretch in prison for burglary – eighteen months, if my memory serves me right.’ He paused, switched his gaze from Hunter and Grace and continued, ‘I say burglary, because that was what he was charged with, and convicted of, but there was more to it than that. My tutor told that me he’d actually attacked a fifteen-year-old girl in the house he was burgling. Apparently, the daughter of the couple whose house it was had not gone to school that day because she had flu. Her Mum had called back at lunchtime to see she was all right, and then had left her tucked up in bed, locking up as she left to go back to work, but had left the back window open to let in some fresh air. According to the girl she woke up a couple of hours later to find him in her room and she instantly recognised him because he only lived half a dozen doors away. She told detectives that he’d pinned her down on the bed and covered her mouth with his hand and then he’d started to fondle her, but she managed to bite his hand, and started screaming and he ran off. He was nicked by CID within hours of the job and admitted breaking into to the house but wouldn’t have anything to do with fondling the girl. His explanation was that he’d panicked when he’d found her there and that he’d got on top of her to cover her mouth to stop her screaming.’ He gave a look of derision. ‘I was told that detectives had not been convinced by what he’d told them, but because he also admitted he’d done a couple of other houses on that estate and cleared up half a dozen other jobs, CID were happy with that and didn’t press the assault charges on him. When he came out of jail he went back to living with the woman on Chapel Street he’d been with before going down and he returned to his old job at the pit. It caused a bit of a rumpus at the time – him coming back. The family whose home he’d burgled sold up and left, which was really sad.’ He paused and said, ‘I know what I’d have done to him if that had been my daughter.’ Shrugging his shoulders, he picked up his cup again. ‘As I say all that was before I started the job. I did try to keep my eye on him, but he kept his head down and we had no more jobs like that round there so I never came into contact with him until a couple of years later. In early nineteen-seventy, we had two attacks on young women on Chapel Lane, both within a short time period of one another. On both occasions the women were approached from behind, dragged to the ground and their breasts were fondled. All we had by way of a description was a man in dark clothing with a scarf covering his face. There was an investigation that lasted a good couple of months. They drafted in CID from all over the district and I got overtime and worked in plain clothes doing observations around the estate. To be honest we never gave Brathwaite a thought because of the MO and the enquiry died a death. And then six months after these two attacks – on Halloween Night – we had the rape of Jessie Appleton. She was walking home from the Navvi when she was grabbed from behind, dragged across the fields, and she told detectives that her attacker had made her remove her tights and knickers and then had sex with her.’ Gordon set his eyes on Grace, ‘This is the job CID knocked.’ He paused again and then said, ‘As I’ve already said Jessie had problems. She was no angel. That night she’d had her usual skinful, and unfortunately she also had a bit of a reputation in the locality amongst some of the men – you get my drift. The fact that she told detectives that he’d made her remove her own tights and knickers, meant they quite simply didn’t believe her story. They put more energy into knocking what she said than investigating the crime. The sad thing is they could have detected it. The man who’d raped her – Terry Braithwaite – had not worn a condom. Of course we didn’t know it was him at that time, but he would have been caught earlier if the job had been done right and they’d got a sample from her. They just never bothered and the enquiry was put to bed so to speak. I was disgusted and had a quiet word with the DS first, but the sergeant was on the side of his detectives. They took no account of what I said about her – especially that I believed her. Even when I said she was a snout for me. She used to tell me what was going on in the estate and who was up to what. But it cut no ice and that’s when I went to the DCI and got a bollocking. I mean, I know she put it about a bit with other men and she could be a bit of a fire-brand when she’d had a few. Nevertheless, she deserved better than she got. I spoke to her on numerous occasions about what had happened and I can tell you that she was definitely raped.’ He broke off.

  Hunter stopped
note taking and took in the pained expression displayed on the retired officer’s face. He was about to say something when Gordon started speaking again.

  ‘And then between Christmas and New Year in nineteen-seventy, we had another rape. A young woman coming home from bingo was making her way along the back lane near Chapel Meadow when, like Jessie, she was grabbed from behind and dragged into the fields. She told detectives a very similar story – that her attacker told her to remove her own tights and knickers. But this time he held a knife to her throat while he raped her.’ He pursed his lips. ‘As you can probably imagine CID were in a bit of a flap because of what they’d done with Jessie’s rape, and so they investigated this one thoroughly, but it was never detected. A lot of blokes were interviewed from the Chapel estate, but I don’t think they had a firm suspect. I certainly can’t recall Braithwaite’s name being in the frame. Anyway, it went quiet all through the spring, and then in the summer of seventy-one we had the third. The MO was similar to the other two – woman making her way home, dragged from behind, forced to remove her clothing. He held a knife to her throat on this occasion as well, but this time he took things a bit further and bit one of her breasts. It was this job that got him his nickname The Beast from the papers. It was also this job where we got a lead.’ He paused, glanced at the box containing his pocket books, returned his gaze and continued. ‘The woman lived at the end of Chapel Lane and knew Braithwaite by sight, and she told detectives that although her attacker had tried to disguise himself with a scarf she thought that the man bore some resemblance to him – eyes, nose, hair and build. The upshot was that Braithwaite was brought in and interviewed. He said the woman must have been mistaken and provided his wife as his alibi. By then he’d married the girl he’d been living with.’ Gordon started tapping his temple. ‘I’m trying to remember what his wife was called, but for the life of me I can’t. My memories getting shocking.’ His face took on a studious look for a few seconds then un-knotting his brow he said, ‘I guess it’ll come to me, most probably when you’ve gone. If not, her details will be in one of my pocket books and I can ring you. Anyway it doesn’t matter now she’s dead.’ He shook his head and gave out a long exasperated sigh, ‘The result was that she alibied him and so they released him. For me, I felt they didn’t push her enough on the alibi she gave and also they didn’t search his house. Because of my feelings about what had happened with Jessie I volunteered to help on the enquiry, but the cheeky bastard of a DS who was running the job told me that ‘they were experienced in these matters and could handle it’. I was totally peed off with them, I can tell you, but I’d already had one bollocking for expressing my thoughts and didn’t want another, so I left it.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The DS who dealt with the job...it was him who got done for perjury last year. Alan Darbyshire.’